Here there be dragons
by million years ago
Summary: The Targaryens aren't the only dragons in Westeros, though this one has absolutely no interest in a ridiculously uncomfortable chair.
1. Searching the Streets

Jory Cassel was not in a good mood. In his defence he had rarely been in a good mood since even before they left Winterfell. First there was that terrible business with the young Lord Brandon falling from the tower. Then the trouble with the Prince and the direwolves and the worsening of the simmering enmity between the Ladies Sansa and Arya. All the while Lord Stark struggled to balance making time for his family with effectively running the seven kingdoms for the King. And those were just the problems in House Stark. As captain of Lord Stark's household guards it was not Jory's place to think on the great affairs of the Seven Kingdoms, but he had grown up in Winterfell seeing Lord Stark almost every day and he could tell that his Lord was greatly troubled. Lord Stark had come back from his first Small Council meeting in a dark humour and had vanished out into the city accompanied only by Lord Baelish not long after, returning in an even stranger mood. Add to all this the viper's nest of sneering so called knights and scheming nobles known as the Red Keep it was not surprising that Jory spent most of his days in a bad temper.

Today, was a particularly bad day however as, though he would rather die than admit it, the current source of Jory's bad mood was in fact Lord Stark. Or more accurately, the task he had given Jory to fulfil.

When he had been summoned to Lord Stark's rooms this morning the last thing Jory had been expecting was to be asked to find someone to teach the Lady Arya swordsmanship, or he supposed swordswomanship. Lord Stark had suggested, or more accurately ordered, Jory to find someone capable of teaching the Lady Arya a style of combat suitable for an unarmoured warrior wielding a small light blade. In short the exact opposite of how nearly every swordsman in Westeros was trained to fight. Of course it went without saying that whoever was found would have to be suitable and safe to spend extended periods of time alone with the Lady Arya.

In short Jory had to search a city he did not know for a stranger, probably a foreigner, who could teach an unknown style of fighting while simultaneously being honourable and of good reputation, also preferably currently without a Lord or Master and not a spy for one of the other Great Houses. In short Jory was as fucked as one of Littlefinger's whores.

On leaving the Red Keep he had gone straight to the inns and brothels near the Street of Silks, always the first place to look for unemployed fighting men. He had just as quickly realised his mistake. With enough coin he could have assembled a decent mercenary company of swordsmen, archers and a scattering of horsemen, but he hadn't found a single man Lord Stark would let within a hundred leagues of his youngest daughter.

All this had brought Jory to his current position, walking slowly along the Street of Steel. Rather than watching the shops he was watching the men, or more precisely their weapons and armour. Any man in full armour was discounted; such men would be wealthy enough, or noble enough, not to take paid employment. Not to mention anyone who wore armour shopping was unlikely to know how to fight well unarmoured. Any man with a sigil was out of the question, neither Lord Stark nor Jory wanted any other Lord's men anywhere near Lady Arya. The man would have to be a natural swordsman so Jory watched the men wearing swords, the way they walked, the way they carried their weapons. He also looked at the swords themselves, how worn they were, how ornate the hilts or scabbards, how well cared for the blades.

It was getting near to sunset as Jory reached the end of the Street of Steel. He had found no one. Already cursing this impossible task Jory was turning to start the trudge back to the Red Keep when he saw him, a short, darker skinned foreign looking man with black hair just leaving one of the smaller and less fashionable armourers. Something about the man caught Jory's eye, when he look at him properly he saw what it was. The man walked with a strange almost dancing grace, he seemed to slide through the crowds like smoke. Truly assessing the man now Jory was starting to think he'd found his swordsman. The foreigner was well dressed, but in plain traveling clothes. The, to Jory's eyes, thin sword at the man's side looked worn but well cared for. Combined with his grace everything about the foreigner suggested a skilled swordsman. Jory shouldered his way through the crowd towards the man.

"Ser, a word" he called out. The man stopped and slowly turned, one hand resting on his sword, eyeing Jory inscrutably. "Ser, might I speak with you," Jory began.

"You may," the man replied "Though I am not one of your Westerosi knights".

Jory paused, "Then might I have your name?"

The man seemed to consider the request, before drawing himself up with an air of pride, "I am Syrio Forel, once First Sword to the Sealord of Braavos." A Braavosi. Jory had heard of the pride the Braavosi placed in their sword skills, though he had never seen one fight. If this man truly had been the First Sword of Braavos then he would have to have been an excellent fighter. Jory inclined his head in respect.

"Well Syrio Forel, would you be willing to consider an offer that would bring you some wealth and greater honour?"

The Braavosi looked interested, "A man who offers more honour than gold, that is unusual in this city." He paused, "I am staying nearby, shall we talk of honour and wealth over what passes for fine wine in Westeros?"

A short walk led the two men to an inn, and soon they were sitting with a flagon of what was definitely not fine wine. Now he had found his man Jory decided to take the direct approach.

"My Lord is seeking a man who can instruct a high born member of his household in swordsmanship," Jory paused.

"I am wondering why it is you come to a man such as me?" the Braavosi interjected, "A Lord with a warrior such as yourself at his command would have many such men who could teach the sword dance."

"The noble in question wishes to learn a different style of fighting, using a light blade and fighting unarmoured," Jory replied cautiously, Lord Stark had been clear that the Lady Arya's name was not to be mentioned in any public place.

Syrio Forel's eyes seemed to light up, "A most unusual request, and one which may be most interesting. I accept your offer," a sudden smile appeared "If your Lord pays well enough."

Jory felt relief surge through him. In a day he had done what seemed like an impossible task only this morning. "My Lord will be willing to discuss payment when he meets with you. I shall speak to him and…" The Braavosi suddenly held up his hand, cutting Jory off mid flow. A man was walking up to their table, hooded and cloaked he held out a scroll to Syrio, who took it silently. Jory got a glance at a strange seal before the Braavosi broke it and quickly read the message. His face paled slightly and then turned dark and serious. He looked up at the messenger's hidden face "Valar Dohaeris". At those words the messenger turned round and walked straight out the inn. Jory sat quietly, he had a feeling that something important had just happened, though he had no idea what. The Braavosi looked up, "I must give you my apologies. A First Sword of Braavos should not break his word but a man has duties he must put before all else. Your Lord will understand that duty binds us all."

Jory nodded mutely, to find the right man then lose him almost immediately was infuriating. But the Braavosi was right, Lord Stark would understand. "Well I will take my leave then..." began Jory, rising from the table.

"Hold a moment," the Braavosi interrupted, "I may have duties, but there are others who do not, who would be able to teach the dance you wish your noble to learn."

Jory sat back down. "You would recommend another, why?"

"To pledge to teach your highborn the water dance then to not. It would be shameful to not offer up another to take my place." Jory paused, in truth it was an easy decision. Spend another day standing on the Street of Steel hoping to see the right man or take the advice of a man who claimed to have been the First Sword of Braavos. He had nothing to lose by meeting this new man.

"Very well, who is this man you speak of?"

Syrio smiled, "It is better you see him, hear him yourself than have another speak of him. He stays at this inn and will be returning soon".

It was two flagons of wine later that the man arrived. Syrio had been telling a story of sailing within sight of the ruins of Old Valyria when he suddenly broke off and sprang up to greet a man by the door. Jory couldn't see well through the crowd but the Braavosi was clearly guiding someone to their table. The other man threw himself into a seat, lounging in it with an easy arrogance, as he scowled at Jory.

"So," the stranger began "What does Lord Stark want with a man like me?"

Jory froze in his seat, "Lord Stark?" he replied.

The stranger snorted, "Yes Lord Stark. He is your Lord so you are here on his orders. Unless you have broken your oaths and taken another master?"

Jory felt a surge of anger at the insult, "What makes you think I am Lord Stark's man?" He almost snarled in reply.

The stranger rolled his eyes, "I could point out that by your speech and dress you are clearly a northerner recently arrived in the city. That as you make no attempt to dress in the southern style your Lord has no problem with this and is therefore also a northerner. There is only one Northern Lord recently arrived in the city and you reacted as soon as I mentioned his name" the stranger paused and smirked again, "But actually I saw you ride in at Lord Stark's side when the royal party returned to the city. So I ask again what does Lord Stark want with me?"

Jory glanced at Syrio Forel, who gave him a nod and an encouraging look.

"He is looking for a man of discretion and honour who can teach swordsmanship. Though a name would be a good place to begin."

At this the stranger smiled, "Well in that case, my name is Draco Malfoy and I am at Lord Stark's service".


	2. Judging a Stranger

Eddard Stark, Lord of Winterfell, Warden of the North and Hand of the King had come to a decision. He had decided that he hated King's Landing, he hated the Red Keep and most of all he hated being Hand of the King. If it were not for his duty to Robert he would be riding North, back to Winterfell and Cat and the rest of his family, not sitting at his desk in the Tower of the Hand surrounded by papers and ink trying to make sense of reports, accounts and letters. Ned was no fool but with every passing day it seemed a more and more hopeless task to impose some sort of order on the affairs of state. At the back of his head a suspicious voice was starting to suggest that perhaps someone, probably someone with golden hair, did not actually want him to make sense of the affairs of King's Landing; never mind the rest of the Seven Kingdoms.

A double knock on the door disturbed Ned's thoughts. "Enter" he called, already knowing from the knock who was at the door. Jory Cassel walked into the room and bowed to his lord.

"You've brought him?" Ned asked

"Yes my lord," Jory replied.

Ned frowned, there was just a hint of hesitation in Jory's voice. He had heard it the night before when Jory had brought him news of the foreign swordsman he had found to teach Arya. Jory was a good man, and Ned trusted his judgement, but like many other northerners he thought in straight lines; a man was trustworthy or not, honourable or not. That Jory was unsure about this foreigner, but still recommending him as a swordmaster to teach Arya concerned Ned.

"Well send him in then."

Jory nodded and stepped outside, Ned could hear him talking to someone. Then the door opened and a stranger walked in.

The stranger was tall and lean, but strangely Ned's first impression was that the foreigner looked like Varys. Like the Masters of Whispers the stranger was wearing long slowing robes, an unusual sight in any of the Seven Kingdoms apart from Dorne. It was only on a second look that Ned realised his mistake. Varys' robes were enveloping flowing garments of silks that hid his figure and had an undoubtedly womanly feel. This stranger's robes were close cut, clinging to his arms and chest and with slits cut so his legs could move freely, revealing dark trousers and battered leather boots. They weren't made of silk either but some rough looking material Ned didn't recognise. As the stranger stalked forwards and stood in front of his desk Ned realised that despite the slight similarity of clothing this man was nothing like Varys, the eunuch didn't walk like that, didn't walk like a warrior. Yet strangely this warrior carried no sword or other weapon, just a black cane with a silver top carved into the shape of a serpent. He clearly did not need the cane to walk so Ned found himself at something of a loss as to why a young man would carry a walking stick.

The stranger was young, surprisingly young, Ned had been expecting a grizzled veteran or at least a man of obvious experience, in fact Ned would have thought him closer to Jon's age than his own. The voice of a father at the back of Ned's mind wondered if having such a young and somewhat handsome man as Arya's teacher was such a good idea. That said there was something about the man though, a look in his eye, a hardness in the cold lines of his face. Ned had seen that look during the Rebellion, seen it on Robert's face and his own, it was the face of a boy forced to grow up too soon.

His thought were cut off as the foreigner suddenly spoke, "Lord Stark it is an honour to meet you, I am Draco Malfoy." A slight bow followed, enough to show respect but certainly not enough to show true deference.

Ned pulled himself out of his thoughts, "I am told you are an exceptional swordsman ser, and an able teacher."

The foreigner, Draco, smiled, "I am exceptional in many ways my lord."

Ned felt the stirrings of unease, there was something about that smile that unsettled him, "So you say, and so Jory says, yet you carry no blade, only a stick."

Draco smiled again ever so slightly "I thought it unlikely that a stranger would be allowed armed into the Red keep, let alone the Tower of the Hand, so I came unarmed."

Ned raise an eyebrow, this Draco was of course correct but to state it so boldly was unusual. He was struggling to find the measure of this man. Draco had the natural self-assured arrogance of the highborn, but was seeking paid work. His clothes were outlandish and foreign but at the same time clearly those of a fighter. That he was completely unconcerned about walking unarmed through the Streets of King's Landing in the early hours showed either a shocking naivety or complete confidence in his own skill.

"How did you come to be in Westeros? And from where do you hail?" Ned thought at least this would help him get some measure of the man.

"I come from the lands beyond Asshai my lord. I came to be in Westeros after my family picked the losing side in a war and I was exiled," a sardonic smirk "Fortunately."

Ned was stunned, Asshai by the Shadow was a land of near myth that few even boasted to have seen. For a man to claim to have come from beyond Asshai was unheard of.

"And in this homeland of yours what was the name of your house?"

Draco looked sharply at Ned "My house?"

Ned felt a sudden surge of satisfaction at having surprised this stranger. "You are clearly not one of the small folk so you must have held allegiance to a Great House."

Draco smiled, the smile of a man acknowledging a worthy opponent, "Well observed my lord. It would be more accurate to say that my family were a Great House, as you Westerosi call them," a pause, "And we followed a more powerful lord to death, disgrace and ruin."

Now the picture made sense to Ned. The son of a highborn family on the losing side in a war, exiled or forced to flee half away across the world. Impoverished and alone men like that found themselves with no skills but those of a lord, but with no estates to manage or smallfolk to rule they turned to the sword as the only way to survive. Such men were also very dangerous and often followed by danger.

"Lord Malfoy," Ned spoke evenly "Can you swear to me that no feuds or bloodshed will come from your homeland to Westeros?"

Draco looked Ned in the eye, "Few are left alive who care to remember me there Lord Stark, and no-one would care enough to come searching for me as either friend or foe."

Ned looked at this Draco with new eyes. The pride, the easy stance of a warrior, that air of nobility were still there, but now he could see other signs. A sense of melancholy and in the hardness on his face a hint of pain.

Ned held Draco's stare, searchingly "Lord Malfoy, I wish to obtain your services to teach my youngest daughter the Lady Arya how to wield a sword."

A moment passed, Draco stepped back and bowed deeply, "My Lord it would be my honour".


	3. First Lesson and First Impressions

Draco shifted uneasily as he stood waiting for his new, and first ever, pupil. The Red Keep unsettled him, there was magic here. A faded sense of power and blood and anger and madness. Perhaps, he mused, there was some truth to the stories he had heard about the Targaryens. Perhaps there had been some magic in them after all. Still it was only an echo, and nothing like the power that had sung through places like… Draco shut down that train of thought even as the old pain swelled in his heart. There was no point thinking on the past, it was gone, the future was all that mattered. Though at the moment his main concern was with the future of the next couple of hours rather than any wider worry.

Draco had accepted this teaching role almost on a whim, and because Syrio had asked him. Syrio might have claimed there was no debt between them but Draco knew better. After that bloody day fighting among the rocks and on the sands he owed Syrio, owed him a debt he could never pay. If Draco was honest with himself Lord Stark was also part of the reason he had accepted the offer, he wasn't sure what it was but there was something about the man. Still, the fact remained that Draco had never taught anyone fencing, or any sort of combat, before and, if he was honest, had no idea really how to start. Certainly he knew what he should be teaching, but the question was how to teach it. Draco had quite a few examples of teachers to draw on though it was hard to tell what would work until he met this Lady Arya and found out what she was like. A wistful smile crossed Draco's face, well it wasn't as if he didn't have a lot of very personal experience of seeing how a teacher dealt with a spoiled rich brat and if all else failed he'd just do his best impersonation of Snape. At that thought sadness welled up, he hadn't thought about his old mentor in a long time, ruthlessly Draco crushed the thought and pushed it away. Now was not the time to go down that path. It was definitely not the time, Draco could feel someone approaching the room, and unless he was very much mistaken it was his new pupil.

* * *

Arya ambled slowly through the halls. If Septa Mordene or Sansa had seen her there would have been a lecture about how highborn ladies don't slouch or scuff their feet. Arya didn't want to be a highborn lady and she especially didn't want to be one today. Dancing lessons. Why by all the Gods her father wanted her to have dancing lessons Arya didn't know, but here she was going to meet her 'dancing master'. Pushing open the door she walked into the room which was going to be her dancing room for the next hour, and there he was, the man whose lessons she would be forced to endure.

He wasn't as old as she was expecting, but he looked strange. She would never admit it but many people in the capital looked strange to Arya but this dancing master was definitely one of the stranger. He was wearing robes almost like a Septon, but they were black. His hair was whitish blonde, like the stories she'd heard of the Targaryen's. The more she looked the more she realised he couldn't be that much older than Jon or Robb, but his face looked too hard and cold it made him look older. Confusingly he was holding what looked like two pieces of wood, partly concealed in his robes.

"You're my dancing master?" she asked.

Draco smirked back at her, "Ah yes a very particular form of dancing."

He flung something at Arya, it clattered to the floor at her feet. Arya felt a sudden surge of joy as she saw what it was, a practice sword; like the ones she had seen her brothers use in the practice yard at Winterfell a hundred times. She looked up, Draco was smiling properly at her, "Well little lady, pick it up and let's see what you can do."

"I'm not little and I'm not a lady" Arya snarled back. Draco smirked "Well you are most definitely little, so in that case shall we settle for little girl?"

That smirk was already infuriating Arya, "And what should I call you?" she almost snarled back.

The smile never wavered "My name is Draco Malfoy, and I will be teaching you how to fight. Now pick up that sword and hit me, if you can."

* * *

Ned strode quickly down the hall. He had meant to be there when Arya's lesson had started, if only to see the look on her face when she realised what her 'dancing lesson' actually was. But instead that blasted Maester Pycelle had corned him after the small council, wittering on about something so unimportant Ned had already forgotten it. Now he was practically running through the Red Keep in an attempt to get to Arya before her lesson ended.

A faint clattering sound rang out as Ned neared the room, nodding to Jory and the couple of guards who just happened to be sitting nearby Ned moved to the open door and looked in to see his youngest daughter doing her best to beat a man with a practice sword. She was wild, his daughter, swinging her sword this way and that, but that was no surprise, every novice fought like that and his little girl had too much of a wolf in her to fight any other way. He was surprised at how fast she was, though thinking back to her chasing Bran around Winterfell he supposed he shouldn't have been surprised. What did surprise him though was her teacher.

Ned knew that Draco would be at least a passable swordsman, otherwise Jory would never have recommended him, but from what Ned could see he was far more than that. It was nothing most men would have noticed, sparring with a young girl Draco was obviously faster and stronger but the way he moved! Every step was perfect, every movement of his body just enough to let a wild swing slide past him or to slide his sword past Arya's guard with a cry of "Dead again little girl." Ned stood there watching Arya was grinning, her face alight with joy in a way he hadn't seen for weeks.

Ned smiled watching his little girl swing away with her training sword, listening to the clatter of wood on wood. But as he stood there another sound came creeping slowly, unbidden to his ears. The clatter of steel on steel. Ned watched Arya swing wildly, and saw her blade clash against the cold steel of Draco's. He could see sand scattering at their feet where there had been stone only moments before. He could hear the roaring swell of battle building in his ears. Now the two fighters were surrounded by water, water stained with blood. He saw Draco spin under Arya's attack and bring his sword to her chest and as she froze for a split second he saw the blade cut deep into his little girl, saw her lifeblood spill into the waters of the Ruby Ford. Then Arya laughed, and it was gone. The sound of battle vanished, the blades were wooden practice swords, they were standing on flagstones and his beautiful little girl was unharmed, laughing at how easily she had lost.

Ned turned away, troubled. He had thought this would be a distraction for Arya, a game to keep her occupied until she grew into her role as a lady. But now he was not so sure. Ned didn't believe in prophecy or greenseers, if such things had existed they were gone from the world now, but in that moment he felt with cold hard certainty that one day his beautiful, wilful, innocent, little girl would wield cold steel in anger and either she would kill men or they would kill her.


End file.
